Let It Be Love

by Victoria Alexander

  “Of course I haven’t seen him without clothing!” He tapped his finger on the drawings. “But I’d know that face anywhere.”

  “Oh, the face. You’re talking about the face.” She raised a shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. “Well, that’s another matter altogether.”

  His brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean, another matter?”

  “The face is an entirely separate issue from the body.”

  “Fiona!”

  “Very well, then, I admit it.” She rolled her gaze toward the ceiling. “It is Orsetti’s face—”

  “Aha!”

  “But it is not his body.”

  “What?”

  “On occasion”—she chose her words carefully—“it became rather dull to be drawing the same model over and over again. Some of us then amused ourselves by…” She paused. It didn’t sound at all good. “Using a different head rather than the one provided.”

  Jonathon sucked in a shocked breath. “You put one man’s face on another man’s body?”

  “It was a…” She thought for a moment. “Ajoke. An amusing prank.”

  “A prank?” Jonathon’s eyes widened. “You indiscriminately put one man’s head on another man’s body and call it a prank?”

  She stared at him. His reaction was both unexpected and far too extreme for the circumstances. Besides, surely he of all people would understand a joke? “Yes, a prank, and as the true”—she searched for the right word—“owner of the head never knew of its use, nor, I might add, did the models ever see the finished work, it was a harmless prank, at that.”

  “I don’t think it’s the least bit harmless.” Indignation rang in his voice. One would think it was his head that had been substituted for another.

  She drew her brows together. “Why?”

  “Because…”

  “Because?” she prompted.

  “Because if one didn’t know it was a joke, one might be tempted to think—”

  “To think…what?” Her voice hardened.

  “That you”—he waved at the drawing—“and he…”

  She narrowed her eyes. “That I and he what?”

  “Well.” Jonathon’s voice faltered, and for the first time since her arrival he looked unsure of himself.

  “That I had seen Orsetti naked?” she said slowly. “That perhaps Orsetti had seen me naked? Is that what you thought?”

  He hesitated. He had the look of a man who has just stepped in something unpleasant on the street and has no idea how to get it off his shoes. “No.”

  She gasped. “You did! You thought I and, worse, Orsetti? Orsetti?”

  “You can certainly see how I would make such an assumption,” he said weakly.

  “I most certainly cannot! Orsetti is a pompous ass. How could you have failed to notice that? Did you honestly think that Orsetti is the kind of man that would appeal to me? The kind of man that I would draw”—she fairly spit the words—“naked?”

  “Perhaps not, but—”

  “Or do anything else with naked?”

  “No, no, of course not,” he said quickly, but it was obvious that he had indeed.

  Anger flooded her. “It appears, my lord, that you have jumped to yet another ill-considered conclusion. Is this a habit of yours?”

  “Only with you,” he muttered.

  “Do you honestly think I am the type of woman who would squander my virtue—”

  Jonathon winced at the word.

  “On an idiot like Orsetti?” She shoved at his shoulder. “Have I no sense? No intelligence? No taste?”

  He stepped back. “Women have been known to lose their hearts to idiots—”

  “I can certainly understand that!” As I am staring at an idiot even as we speak! “However, it’s not the loss of my heart that was in question, was it?” She shoved him again.

  Again he stepped back. “You can surely see how I might think—”

  “I most certainly cannot.” She pushed him once more.

  “Ouch.” He rubbed his shoulder. “That hurts a bit, you know.”

  “Good!” She emphasized the word with another push of her hand.

  “Stop it.”

  She pushed again. “No.”

  “See here, Fiona.” He grabbed her hand. “You have every right to be angry. However, you cannot fault me entirely for this.”

  “I most certainly can.” She tried to pull her hand away, but he held it fast.

  “I may well have added two plus two together and come up with five, but your actions as well as your words, when construed incorrectly, as I freely admit I have done”—he met her gaze firmly—“might well lead one to believe you could have been freer with your favors than you have been.”

  She gasped. “I never—”

  He jerked her closer. “Did you or did you not once say to me that you wanted to kiss me back when I kissed you?”

  “I may have said something of the sort, but that scarcely means—”

  “And did you or did you not tell me you no longer cared about virtue?” He stared at her, the look in his eyes daring her to deny his charge. “And that you wished to have me in the fullest sense of the phrase?”

  She scoffed. “I never said the fullest sense of the phrase.”

  He snorted. “It was implied.” He gazed directly into her eyes, his face a bare few inches from her own, the slightest hint of a smug smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “And did you or did you not ask me to marry you when we had scarcely met?”

  She glared up at him. “I was desperate.”

  “Are you desperate now?”

  “No,” she snapped. “Yes. I don’t know. Nothing has changed. I—”

  “Everything has changed.” His voice was low and abruptly serious.

  At once she was aware of her body pressed to his. Of her hand held against his chest. Of a tangible sense of inevitability in the air.

  She held her breath. “Has it?”

  “It has for me.” He lowered his lips to hers. “And for you?”

  “No.”

  He stilled.

  “I still want to kiss you.” She swallowed hard. “I still want…you.”

  He released her hand and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tighter against him. “Good.”

  “You do realize there will be no turning back?” her lips murmured against his.

  “I do.” He pulled his lips from hers and kissed the line of her jaw.

  Delight shivered through her and her head dropped back. His lips trailed over her neck and down the column of her throat.

  She gasped. “You understand as well that I have never…”

  “I do.” His words murmured against her throat. “I surrender, Miss Fairchild.”

  Her hands flattened on his chest and the warmth of his body radiated through the silk of his dressing gown and his shirt. And into her soul.

  His hands caressed her back and she turned her face toward his. His lips met hers in a manner firm and certain. Without hesitation. Without doubt. Without question. Fated. An overwhelming sense of certainty and irresistible need shivered through her. And surrender.

  She pulled away and met his gaze. “I have always wanted to be the lady who joined you for a clandestine meeting in the library.”

  He smiled. “It scarcely deserves the name library.”

  “And yet, there are books.” She threw her arms around him and pressed her lips to his with an eagerness that caught him unawares and knocked him off balance.

  He staggered back a step. She struggled to maintain her footing. He caught his foot in something unseen, she grabbed for him and they both tumbled backward. And would have fallen to the floor had there been floor space to do so. As it was, Jonathon landed on his buttocks on something Fiona didn’t see and she ended in a tangle of skirts and petticoats more or less on top of him.

  He stared up at her in a wry manner. “I fear, Fiona, this library is not conducive to anything of a romantic nature.” He shifted and winced. “At
least not without a great deal of pain.”

  “I don’t care.” She leaned forward, framed his face with her hands and kissed him, slowly, in a deliberate and sensual manner. She wanted this, wanted him, more than she had ever thought possible, and she was not about to let a museum of a house stand between them. “Although I should hate for you to be in pain.”

  He drew his head back and stared at her as if surprised by the seductive nature of her kiss or his own response to it.

  “As would I,” he murmured, pushed her to her feet, then stood. “I have had quite enough of this, Fiona Fairchild. We have been on this course from the moment we met.” He pulled her to him and kissed her hard, then set her back. “I have wanted you since I first saw you in the Effington House library and I shall not let anything keep us apart now.”

  He grabbed her hand and started to make his way to the door.

  “Jonathon!” She gasped with feigned shock. “Where are you taking me?”

  “To my bed.” He sidestepped a suit of armor. “It’s past time.”

  “Indeed it is,” she murmured, her skirts catching on a tall carving that looked tribal in nature and not at all friendly. “If the servants see us, they will talk.”

  He stopped and tried to untangle her. “If they talk, I shall fire them.”

  “What if I decide I don’t wish to wish to join you in your bed?” she said, and impatiently pulled at the caught skirt.

  “You won’t.” He furrowed his brow and tugged at the fabric. Abruptly it came free with a nasty ripping sound. He looked at her. “Will you?”

  Her breath caught. “Absolutely not.”

  “It appears your cousin was right.” He smiled wickedly and again headed for the door, pulling her behind him. “You are perfect for me.”

  She laughed and wondered that she wasn’t the least bit hesitant to follow him to his bed or anywhere else. Of course, given what he’d said last night and more importantly what he hadn’t, she was fairly confident he planned to marry her. But it simply didn’t matter. She wondered at that too. Did all women who had reached a certain age without marrying decide to throw caution to winds and leap into the bed of the man they loved? Regardless of what happened after this, no matter whom she married, this, now, was what she wanted. And if she never got another thing she wanted for the rest of her life, at least she would have had this. She would have had him. She would have had love.

  Jonathon reached the door, cautiously peeked out, then turned to her. “We shall make a dash for the stairs. Are you ready?”

  The question hung in the air between them fraught with more meaning than he had intended. She nodded firmly. “I am.”

  He squeezed her hand and together they slipped out the door. She followed him down the short stretch to the stairway, then up the stairs and along a short corridor. He moved in a stealthy manner as if he were a thief and not the owner of the house. Still, it made her feel delightfully wicked and not simply apprehensive, although with each step closer to his bed she did note certain twinges of anxiety.

  Jonathon threw open a door, stepped in, yanked her in after him and in one quick movement shut the door behind her, pressed her back to the door and kissed her. Long and hard, until the door was the only thing holding her up. Until her bones melted from heat and desire. Until she wanted nothing more than…more.

  Skillfully, he turned her around and quickly undid the hooks at the back of her bodice, then pushed her dress down over her shoulders to her waist. His lips caressed the nape of her neck and she moaned softly. He untied the lone petticoat she’d worn and pushed it, together with her dress, over her hips until it fell at her feet. She’d dressed hurriedly, without a maid, and her corset was not as snug as it would have been otherwise and she realized, as the cool morning air mixed with the heat of his lips on her shoulders and the warmth of his hands at her waist, that she had fully expected them to come to this point. Had, in truth, wanted it. Planned for it.

  She twisted around to face him and wrapped her arms around his neck. His lips claimed hers and his fingers ran over the front of her corset until they played over her confined breasts. She gasped at his touch, with anticipation and need. She pushed his hands away and quickly undid the hooks at the front of her corset and it too fell to the floor. He tugged at the ribbon of her chemise until he had it open to her waist and his hands cupped her bare breasts.

  She rested her head against the door and arched her back upward to meet his touch. He pulled his lips from hers and bent to take one breast into his mouth. She laid her hands on his shoulders and let the feel of his mouth on her flesh wash over her. Through her. And tried to breathe. He shifted his attention to her other breast and she dug her fingers into his flesh. And again wanted…more.

  Without warning he pulled away and, before she could protest, scooped her into his arms, kicked her dress out of the way, turned and took a step. And promptly bashed into something.

  “Damnation!”

  “What?” Her senses were muddled and she shook her head.

  “This blasted room is as bad as that library,” he muttered, and tried to make his way through the room with her in his arms.

  “Dear Lord, it is, isn’t it?” she murmured, looking around a bedchamber every bit as full as the library, with just as many odd curiosities and furnishings of an exotic nature. Although here the word erotic was probably more appropriate. “Fascinating.”

  “Oh, no. You are not going to be distracted by this…this…collection.” Determination sounded in his voice. “Although”—he grinned down at her in a wicked manner—“there is something to be said for properly setting the stage, as it were.”

  He set her on her feet in front of what was probably the most unique bed she’d ever seen.

  It was enormous, Chinese in style and looked more like a small room than a mere bed. It was canopied and had carved open-work panels around three sides depicting dragons and all manner of oriental creatures. An air of hedonistic mysticism encircled it as if this were a place where virgins were deflowered as sacrifices to an insatiable god and went eagerly with a smile upon their faces and an ache of need in their loins.

  “Dear Lord,” she breathed.

  “It’s impressive, isn’t it?”

  It was lacquered and light glinted off the finish as if it were alive. And it was…red.

  “It’s terrifying,” she said under her breath. “And decadent. And…”

  He raised a brow. “And?”

  “And it fairly screams that its primary purpose is not sleep.”

  “Yes, well, I suppose….” Jonathon looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I did not purchase it, you know, it came with the house, and I—”

  “Jonathon.” She turned to him and tugged at the knotted sash of his dressing gown. “You may not yet have realized it, but, as I am standing here clad in nothing more than my chemise, my stockings and my shoes, my primary purpose is not sleep either.” She untied the sash and he shrugged the robe off. “At the moment I am concerned with nothing more than making certain you are as scantily attired as I.”

  “You have no idea how pleased I am to hear that.” He yanked his shirt off over his head, tossed it aside, then pulled her back into his arms to kiss her thoroughly. Her breasts pressed against his naked chest, his arousal beneath the silk of his trousers was hard against her.

  “I have some idea,” she murmured.

  He laughed, picked her up and laid her across the width of the bed, but even when she reached her hands over her head she still couldn’t touch the panel that bounded the other side. The sheer size alone bespoke of frolicking of a carnal nature. She watched him take off her shoes, then slowly peel off her stockings until she was wearing only her thin chemise. He started to untie his trousers and she propped herself up on her elbows and watched him.

  He hesitated, caught her gaze and grimaced. “Now I know how your models felt.”

  “Well, I have never seen…” Heat flashed up her face.

  “It’s somew
hat intimidating, you know.”

  “I am sorry, I don’t mean it to be.”

  “You have seen naked men before. Quite thoroughly, I might add, given the detail of your drawings.”

  “Yes, but men have never seen me naked before. Besides, that was an entirely different thing and completely impersonal. This”—she waved at the bulge in his trousers—“is most personal.”

  “Indeed it is,” Jonathon murmured, drew a deep breath and slipped off his trousers.

  Fiona stared. She had seen men fully exposed before in the name of art, but after the first few times it had become no more significant than when one was presented with an orange or a…a banana to draw. She had certainly never seen a gentleman’s unmentionables at attention, as it were, prepared, erect and incredibly significant. It was at once daunting and exciting.

  She scrambled to her knees, pulled her chemise up over her head and let it fall. Jonathon moved to the edge of the bed, tilted her chin up with two fingers and brushed his lips over hers until her mouth opened beneath his. His tongue met hers, he tasted of her, drank of her until she ached for his touch, and still he did not move closer. She could feel the heat of his naked body a few bare inches from her own and wanted to press her skin against his and knew he wanted it too. And with every moment she did not touch him, every second he did not touch her, desire swirled within her and grew.

  At last, she placed her hands flat on his chest, on the rough hair that scattered over his skin and trailed down his abdomen. His muscles tensed beneath her touch. She trailed her fingers over the hills and valleys of his chest, exploring with a personal touch what she had drawn in an impersonal manner. Her hands drifted lower across the flat planes of his abdomen and she felt him hold his breath as if waiting. For her. She ran her hand over his member and it jerked beneath her hand. It was far harder than she’d expected and as soft as silk to the touch. She curled her fingers around him and he groaned and wrapped his arms around her, and together they tumbled backward onto the bed.

  At once, passion exploded between them. Their arms entwined, their legs tangled together, their mouths were everywhere at once. She wanted, no, needed to touch him, to taste him, to feel the heat of his flesh pressed against hers. And needed him to touch her in return. To taste her. To make her his own.